


Teeth

by Amelior8or



Series: Drarryopoly 2.0 [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Clubbing, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Drarropoly 2.0 - A Drarry Game/Fest, Emotional Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Fighting As Foreplay, Gentle Kissing, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Knotting, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, POV Draco Malfoy, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sectumsempra Scars, Simultaneous Orgasm, Top Harry, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wall Sex, Werewolf Harry, discussion of scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelior8or/pseuds/Amelior8or
Summary: Potter’s been practically begging for it, formonths, constantly staring until the air crackles with the intensity of it. Draco always stares back, until all it takes is a brush, a spark, before they go up like flash paper. The crash into each other is inevitable.Draco’s heart has got teeth. And there is nothing he won’t do to keep up the fight with Harry fucking Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Drarryopoly 2.0 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561828
Comments: 80
Kudos: 1081
Collections: Drarropoly 2.0 - A Drarry Game/Fest





	Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> For the Drarryopoly prompt:  
> Harry/Draco picks up a Portkey for work to take them to what is meant to be a meeting with certain personnel. Little does he know that the Portkey leads straight to Harry/Draco's office. Choose either ~~1) Fluff/Humor -OR- 2) Angst~~ -OR- 3) PWP
> 
> This fic would not _exist_ without the Dream Team of betas, [ Etalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/pseuds/Etalice) and [ Andithiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andithiel/pseuds/Andithiel) , who have made this the best thing I have ever written. They cheered me on, pushed me to make my writing stronger, and kept me sane during the hell of writing in present tense. I am intensely lucky to have them be a part of this fic, and to have them in my corner while I was writing it <3

_Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet_

_Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth_

_Late night devil, put your hands on me_

_And never, never, never ever let go_

*

Potter’s body slams into him on the mats, and Draco jams his fist into the fucker’s ribs, twisting his knuckles so they bruise. They squirm: it’s a clench of rough hands and a grind of hard pelvises and a huff of hot breath. Then a shoulder crashes into Draco’s jaw, and he shoves Potter off with a knee in his hips.

Draco spits out blood and bares his teeth.

Everyone around them is jeering at Draco, even the instructor. Draco’s getting kicked out of the Auror Training program, he knows. Probably by the end of the week. Mercer’s been looking for an excuse to cut him since the day Draco signed up, and beating the bloody shit out of the Saviour of the Wizarding World is a fucking good one.

Potter’s been practically begging for it, for _months_ , constantly staring until the air crackles with the intensity of it. Draco always stares back, until all it takes is a brush, a spark, before they go up like flash paper. The crash into each other is inevitable.

So if he’s getting kicked out for fighting, he might as well enjoy it.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Potter says and his stupid eyes are _so_ green. Like poison, like life.

“You wish,” Draco says, and lunges for him.

*

Potter walks into the shower stall _right_ next to the one Draco’s in. The dark spread of skin that stretches over collar bones and muscles is visible over the divider, and Draco scoffs at him. As if he’d let Potter pretend he doesn’t know _exactly_ what’s happening. As though they weren’t all alone in a giant change room for the trainees, and Potter hadn’t just stripped himself naked and walked into the stall as close to Draco as possible.

“You conduct foreplay like an animal,” Draco says and reaches for soap so he can safely face away.

“Had to give you a proper send off,” Potter replies. Draco can hear the spray hitting Potter’s chest. “You tossed the best scores Auror’s have seen in a decade just to fight with me. Couldn’t let you go without a proper tussle.”

“How sanctimoniously grand of you,” Draco says. His back is still to Potter’s, but he’s turned just enough that when he tilts his face into the spray, the son of a bitch will only be able to watch the water run rivulets down the arch of his neck “You wank yourself to sleep with how generous you are?”

He hears the rough huff of Potter’s laugh. “Probably as much as you’ll wank yourself to throwing away a top spot in the Aurors just to prove people right about you.” 

He hears a shift of muscles, and an arm pushes deep into his stall: full of sinews and skin and freckles on its forearm. The rough fingers grab Draco’s soap and return back over the divider with the spoils.

Potter is as fit as sin but idealistically an idiot. The top spot was Draco’s, but no one in their right mind would let him claim it. Not unless they filed down his teeth and kept him like a dog on a leash. If Potter doesn’t already know that, then Draco doesn’t have to tell him.

“A reputation’s only sexy if you live up to it,” he says instead. 

“Is that where I’ll find you after this, then?” Potter asks. “Off doing evil deeds for me to stop?”

Draco snorts. “Later. Tonight, you’d probably find me in a terribly scandalous den of iniquity, trying to get myself fucked like a whore.”

He turns off the water and spins out of the shower stall, feeling Potter’s eyes burn on his skin as they follow his naked arse walking away.

*

The music in the club is throbbing, with the kind of baseline that makes people feel sexy and uninhibited.

Draco has no idea whose cock is grinding against his arse, who’s on his other side licking his neck. He’s here to get fucked tonight, and he doesn’t care who does it.

Until he does because he sees Potter in the crowd.

Draco’s too drunk to remember if Potter is the one who approaches him, or if it’s him sauntering up to Potter in his tight-as-fuck pants and sinful shirt. He _does_ remember how it feels for them to grind into each other, to pretend they’re not throwing punches and be just as vicious anyways. He remembers tart banter: maybe teasing, probably provocation. Remembers the way Potter finds a wall to push Draco up against, the way his hot hand pulls up Draco’s thigh to wrap it tight against Potter’s hip. Remembers a silent attempt to convince himself that this isn’t surrender, it’s a vanquishing.

He remembers the rumble, the growl, as Potter nips his neck and says, “Will you let me fuck you?”

And Draco remembers the way his bitch of a mouth says the words, “Only if you take me to dinner first.”

Potter pulls back, and Draco tries to gasp in whatever sobering air he can in the dim humidity of the night club. Potter’s thigh is still pressed up against his inseam, too warm, too unyielding. Draco’s too drunk. He must be, for nearly saying yes to Harry Potter just so he can sustain the fight. For blurting out something that will _end_ the fight and replace it with entirely the wrong kind of thing.

Potter nods. “All right. Dinner tomorrow?” he asks, as if Draco’s demand isn’t absolutely absurd.

“I have dinner with my parents tomorrow,” Draco says, and it’s a lie. A lie that gives him the security of resistance but that takes him _even further_ from getting fucked, what the hell? “The day after?”

Potter grins, sudden and wide, then presses in so that he fills all of Draco’s space once again. “I leave the day after tomorrow. There’s some werewolves in Germany that might have known Lupin.” He grinds forward, and Draco can feel Potter’s cock, rock hard and sliding _perfectly_ against his own. “When I come back? Friday next week?”

Draco wants to kiss him, bite his lip and lick into his mouth. He wants to spread his legs for Potter, ride Potter like a rentboy, suck Potter’s cock until he cries.

Instead, Draco shrugs. “Good enough. I’ll owl you.” Then, he pushes Potter off and forces himself to walk away, swallowing against the feeling of a clear victory on his part that somehow still aches of loss.

*

On Friday of the next week, Harry Potter doesn’t show.

*

In the months that pass, he actively _refuses_ to be hung up on Potter. He’s strategic about it: avoiding the _Prophet_ if there’s even a hint of mentioning Potter, avoiding the shops and streets and sights and statues and services he knows Potter likes. 

He doesn’t think about Potter while he tries to get a flat or food or a steady income. Doesn’t think about Potter while he showers or drinks or runs his tongue along his teeth. Doesn’t think about Potter in the dark and in the quiet, where he pushes into his hand and moans his shame into the pillows.

* 

He’s distracted from Potter when the Portkey drops Draco into a room full of plush sofas and liquor cabinets and paper-covered desks. He’s in some kind of office, then. Not that it matters. He has a job to do. Draco looks around until he spots a space on one of the desks large enough for his crate.

“Mr. James,” he calls out. “I’m just dropping off your supply of wolfsbane potions!” He sighs. “And a week’s worth of Pepper-Up potions, as an apology for the delay.”

Draco’s respectable now, more or less. More “makes enough money to buy food”, less “has a job society approves of”. There’s no official storefront, but it’s been nearly a year now, and enough people know that Draco Malfoy will brew any potion for anyone who wants it, needs it, and pays for it. Vampires get blood-simulation potions, starlets get rejuvenation potions, and werewolves get wolfsbane potions. Delivery and payment are all automatic: no one ever sees anyone’s face.

Except for when his apprentice sneezes right into a batch for his best fucking customer not even ten minutes before the delivery Portkey was due to go off, leaving Draco no way to decant a whole new crate in time. When that happens, Draco has to owl an apology, explain why he needs a whole fucking week to rebrew, and ask for a new Portkey with the promise that he’d personally make the delivery.

So here he is. Making a delivery to a werewolf the day before the full moon.

The crate is delivered, but it’s still a full five minutes before the Portkey will activate a return to Draco’s lab. And he knows that Mr. James is waiting on these potions. He’d need to take some the minute they arrive. There’s no way Draco wouldn’t meet him.

Then, the door of the study bursts open while Draco’s trying to brace himself for an apology to a pissed off customer, and he nearly swallows his tongue when he realizes who Mr. James actually is.

“ _Potter_?”

Potter, barefoot and shirtless, gives Draco an apologetic grimace before he speeds across to the desk with the crate. Potter pulls out a bottle, yanks out the stopper with his teeth, and downs the whole thing.

When he’s done, Potter slumps back against the desk and says, “ _God_ , you smell so fucking delicious, Malfoy.”

Draco takes a step back. The son of a bitch looks _perfect_. They haven’t seen each other since the night at the club, and Draco’s not some mooney-eyed bint who won’t get over being stood up. But in Draco’s best fantasties, Potter’s lost his nose in the meantime, or is hit with some horrifying and disfiguring curse, one that makes him smelly and repulsive and absurdly unattractive.

But no. Potter’s not disfigured at all, other than apparently being a werewolf. The muscles of his chest look unyielding, the tendons at the top of his feet look vulnerable, and the mess of dark curls look like they belong to someone who’s just had the best fuck of his life.

“Don’t worry,” Potter says. “I didn’t mean delicious in the ‘I want to eat you up’ way.”

“What other kind of delicious is there?” Draco snaps. 

The edge of Potter’s lip lifts, just enough to bare a flash of teeth. “The kind of delicious where your smell makes me want to drag you into my bed and keep you busy there for a long, _long_ time. It makes me want to tear your clothes off and lick every inch of your skin. It makes me want to claim you and mark you and claim you again, until anyone else who smells your delicious smell will also smell _me_.”

Draco’s throat stops working.

Potter winces, puts the bottle down. “Sorry. I don’t have much of a filter, this close to the moon. Sorry for sexually harassing you.”

Draco says, “I don’t feel very harassed.” Then, “Were you a werewolf when we were in the club, Potter?”

“Call me Harry,” he says. He doesn’t move, not that Draco can see, but every line of his body is suddenly a lot more fucking predatory. “And no. But I was when I was supposed to meet you for dinner. They put me in a magical coma to get me through the first moon.”

Draco wants to sneer. Of _course_ , Potter’s excuse is, infuriatingly, better than anything Draco imagines when he dreams of the son of a bitch crawling back to him with an apology.

Instead, Potter — _Harry_ — just decides to become Mr. James, Draco’s best customer. His _first_ customer, with enough ongoing orders to single-handedly ensure that Draco can afford a place to sleep at the end of the day. Asking Draco — _trusting Draco_ — to make the potions he consumes every single day.

Draco presses his lips together. The realization scorches a path from the inside of his ribs to deep beneath his navel, and the feeling of it disgusts him. Draco isn’t a Gryffindor, won’t stride into his doom for something as foolhardy as bravery. But he’d jump off a cliff, endure an Unforgivable, stare down a werewolf before willingly facing what he feels in his heart.

He won’t be prey to Potter, won’t affirm Potter’s actions to be anything more than him playing with his food. If it’s about survival, Draco Malfoy is just as much of a predator as Harry fucking Potter.

“So you’re a big bad wolf, then?” Draco asks. He doesn’t take a step closer, but he moves: relaxing his hips to show off his legs, tilting his shoulders to emphasize his collar bones. Licking his lips. “Do you moonlight in fur when you clock out from being an Auror?”

Potter _does_ take a step closer, pushing off the desk and leaning forward, just fractionally. “Not an Auror. Wolves aren’t on the list of non-humans approved for Ministry work.”

“Because of how beastly you are to employ, Potter?” Draco _refuses_ to flinch as he comes closer. He will hold his ground, even if the only thing he can do is stare into those sharp, searing green eyes.

“Call me _Harry_ ,” he says, now deep into Draco’s personal space. Then, “Stay for dinner.”

Draco stops, almost frowns. _Dinner_ isn’t part of the game they’re playing. “Is this how you treat all your potioneers, _Harry_?” he asks.

“I only employ one potioneer,” Harry says. “The Portkey goes back in a minute. Don’t take it. Stay here.”

This close, he smells intoxicating, like trees and rain and blood. But the power in the situation is tilting in Harry’s favour, and Draco isn’t in the mood for defeat.

“Perhaps,” he says, and then he walks to the liquor cabinet. He gets there by going through Harry’s space: a hand skimming past Harry’s shoulder, a leg grazing Harry’s thigh. He feels Harry’s nose drift through the flick of his hair. 

Draco turns his back on a werewolf, the day before a full moon, to pour himself the stiffest drink he can find. When he feels the air thrumming the hunger in Harry’s eyes, he turns, leans on the cabinet.

“What _will_ you do then, after dinner?” Draco asks, takes a drink. “Tear out my jugular while you fuck into me?”

“No,” Harry says, soft. “But I think I might tear your shirt off.”

Draco looks down at his shirt. It cost 320 Galleons, spelled to be impervious to _any_ stain, _any_ potioneering reagent. It was the first significant purchase he made once he started getting a steady income, and it makes him look fit as fuck.

“I’m not particularly attached to the shirt,” Draco says.

“I won’t hurt you,” Harry starts, adorably earnest. “Nothing you don’t want. You can stay for just dinner, if you like.”

“I’m not hungry,” Draco shrugs, and then stares Harry down while there’s a soft _pop_ of the Portkey leaving. Silence descends. 

“When you fuck me,” Draco says, sips. Considers the most devastating words. “Will you drive me up against a wall and bite into my tender, fragile skin? Pin me down like prey and growl until I’m mewling and submissive?”

_When_.

Harry says, “When I fuck you, I don’t think I can stop myself from knotting,” and Draco drops his glass. The sound is sharp as it collides with the floor and shatters, echoing the ringing in his ears. He can picture it with the acute clarity of something inevitable: the push, the stretch, the aching and blinding heat. The excruciating pleasure of being so undeniably claimed.

Harry clears his throat. “I’ll only bite if you ask. You won’t turn unless I bite you during the moon.”

“What if I say no?” Draco asks. He notices the drops of amber alcohol that has splashed on his wrist and he raises it to his mouth, letting his tongue flick past bone and tendon as he licks it off.

Harry swallows. “Then I stop.”

“What if I say maybe?”

Harry shrugs. “Then I ask again when we get to it, and I’ll take your yes or no then.”

“Then I say yes to the fucking,” Draco says. “And no to the biting. And … maybe to the knotting thing.”

“I can work with that,” Harry says, then lunges.

Harry is shorter than him, has _always_ been shorter than him, but when he grapples into Draco and licks into his mouth, Draco feels surrounded, consumed. He does his own licking right back into Harry’s mouth, pressing his tongue into every sharp tooth. Then he flattens his hand against the warm bare skin of Harry’s ribs, right where he punched to bruise that day in training.

Harry noses into his collar and then licks Draco from clavicle to jawline. Draco’s breath hiccups as Harry does it again, then goes back down to suck a sudden, sharp bruise where Draco’s neck joins the shoulder.

Draco half-swallows a moan, not ready to give in this soon. He turns into the meat of Harry’s shoulder and bites down hard, with teeth, then twists his head to snap at the skin behind Harry’s ear.

“You know what I’ve said yes to,” Draco murmurs, nips at his ear again. “What may I do to you?”

“Anything,” Harry says, in a rumble, a deep, gravelly growl. “ _Anything_.”

“Excellent,” Draco says and vanishes Harry pants.

He feels the twitch of Harry’s cock against his leg, suddenly exposed to open air. He feels the buck of Harry’s hips right after, which presses every hot, hard inch of him into the crevice of Draco’s groin. He can’t see beyond the expanse of Harry’s shoulders, the wide spread of muscles, but he can move his arm, so he shoves it down until he gets his hand on Harry’s cock, which he squeezes and strokes until Harry chokes out a deep groan into Draco’s shoulder.

When he feels the slide of Harry’s foreskin and the slick of precome against his wrist, Draco decides that he might as well vanish his own pants, too.

Harry pulls him from the liquor cabinet and pushes him against the wall beside it, pulling up Draco’s leg to hook over the jutting bone of his hip. It’s like in the club, that night Draco asked Harry to take him to dinner and he thought Harry laughed him off as a joke. It’s like in the club, but this time they’re half naked and Draco’s never going to let a meal get in the way of this again.

Draco feels the tip of his cock drag through the coarse hairs nestled at the crux of Harry’s groin, and this time he can’t stop the moan that aches out of him. Harry’s mouth finds his again, but the kiss this time is softer — no less deep, but so much less sharp.

Draco’s already wound too tight for how early into this they are, but he still slides his body against Harry’s, rolling his hips like he’s desperate while trying to convince himself he isn’t.

Then Harry kicks at the leg Draco has left on the ground, and Draco almost tips over as Harry widens his stance, bracing. The arms wrapped around Draco shift, broad hands grab two handfuls of his arse, and Harry picks Draco up into the air, pressing him into the wall, and pressing his own pelvis in.

“Ooh,” Draco says, pulling at Harry’s lip with his teeth, “I like that you’re taking my suggestion of fucking me up against a wall.”

“I will,” Harry groans. “But not yet.”

And then the wide hands under his arse suddenly push _up_ , and Draco squawks at the sudden shift of wall against his back. Harry doesn’t stop lifting him until Draco’s fingers can graze the ceiling and his thighs are now hooked over Harry’s shoulders, Harry’s cheekbone pressing into the inside of his leg.

“Sweet Merlin,” Draco whispers, and Harry gives a feral grin before sucking down his cock to the root.

Draco’s gasp feels too thin, like he didn’t pull in enough air to handle the onslaught of heat and the graze of teeth, and Harry doesn’t let up the charge enough for him to heave in a full breath after that. Draco wants to give each touch and lick and movement his full attention, experience it, catalogue it, control it. But it’s so much, and so good, and he’s so, so _desperate_ that the starbursts of sensations flash by too quickly.

His cock nudges the back of Harry’s throat, and Harry swallows hard. Harry’s nose is buried deep in the hairs of his groin, and whatever he smells there causes a deep, shaking groan. Draco’s head slams back into the wall at how the suction of Harry’s mouth _inches_ along his skin when he slides up, how the tip of Harry’s tongue nudges into the slit before he goes all the way down again. Draco digs his fingers into dark curls so tight they tremble, as Harry licks at the head of his cock with excruciating delicacy.

The only sounds are the slide of lips on skin and the mewling moans spilling from Draco’s mouth as he tries not to scream.

“You, you need to,” Draco gasps, tries to pull in a deeper lungful of air. “I’m going to … if you don’t stop, I’ll —”

Harry releases his cock in a slow drag, his tongue pressing hard into the vein on the underside as it slides off, flicking to catch the leak of precome as Draco’s thighs tremble.

“What,” he says, with the rough rumble of an abused throat, “you think you won’t be able to keep up if you come just once?”

Draco feels like crying. “ _Fuck_ you. You better swallow.”

When Harry’s mouth comes back, it’s scorching, somehow hotter now than moments before, all consuming. Draco’s hips jerk deeper into the suction against his control, and Harry just hums in satisfaction.

Beneath him, the fingers on his arse shift so that one catches his arsehole in a hard flick. Draco screams with something that’s viscerally torn out of him. He can’t feel his fingers, or his lips, or his toes. 

But he doesn’t come. He won’t. Draco will _die_ if he lets himself come before Harry Potter does.

Instead he grabs a fistful of curls and pulls his cock out of the best place it’s ever been. He struggles down to the floor, feels Harry help him willingly, and shoves Harry away so they’re only inches apart and not touching at all. Draco feels the wall press against his spine like a rampart, and he tries to focus on breathing while finally taking in his first full look of Harry naked.

Draco needs to go on the attack. He magics away his shoes and socks so that he’s as barefoot as Harry, but keeps the shirt, as rumpled as it is. He needs to show that he’s not on the retreat, that he’s only acceptably affected by the way Harry absently licks at his puffy lips, shiny with spit and precome. He needs to be seductive, dominating, aloof.

Instead, with the same kind of insanity that struck him that night at the club, he just reaches weak fingers out to span the gap between them, dragging them up the gnarled, scarred skin of Harry’s thigh and saying “This bite could have killed you.”

From the looks of the scar, the teeth must have sunk in near the bone at the hip and then dragged down to nearly the knee. It’s an offence to the beauty of Harry’s skin, slashing through the smooth darkness with the white stretch of tissue magically healed too quickly.

“I like to think that I’m not defined by my scars,” Harry says, softly. “Other than the healers, no one’s seen this one, before you.” 

Draco doesn’t want to identify what burns up beneath his ribs when he hears that, won’t let himself focus on it. Instead he launches into the desire to grab Harry’s shoulders, push him to sit on the nearest sofa, and sling his legs across those exquisite thighs. The hem of Draco’s shirt grazes the tip of Harry’s cock.

He slams his mouth into Harry’s, licks in to taste himself on Harry’s tongue. Harry isn’t fighting but Draco doesn’t want a truce. He wraps his fingers around the bones of Harry’s jaw and kisses him like these kisses won’t haunt him. When he pulls back, Harry tips his head forward to follow him.

“Are you going to finger me open, or what?” Draco asks.

Harry’s grin is wide and ferocious. He kisses Draco again, but this time reaches back to glide his fingers around the curve of Draco’s arse. Then Draco has to yank out of the kiss and gasp at the sudden feel of one spell after another: a loosening, a cleaning, a lubing. 

Three spells. _Three_. Three wandless, _wordless_ spells. Draco can still feel the crackle of Harry’s magic, itching under his skin.

“I _hate_ you,” Draco hisses, then hisses again when Harry licks at his throat and slides a finger in deep.

“Do you?” Harry asks, and the strangeness of how he says it nearly makes Draco frown, until the finger in him pushes just a little bit deeper and then flicks at his prostate.

Draco rears up at the shock, at the fire that burns through him, then immediately slams back down to chase it, and Harry obliges by flicking again. Draco is a breath away from coming, is at his limit.

“ _More_ ,” he snaps.

Harry eases in a second finger and then, after a blinding, brutal, too-long time, a third. Draco’s moans are not even that — they’re just overwhelmed inhalations that go in as a gasp and come out as a whine. Yet he can’t stop, won’t. So he writhes and bucks and rolls to meet Harry, and listens to what Harry has to say when he apparently has no filter.

“I’m going to dream of the sounds you make for the rest of my life. You’re going to look _perfect_ when we’re done, pink and rumpled and covered in come. _Nothing_ will ever feel as good in my hands as your skin. And your smell —” Harry breaks off for a deep, growling moan. “Uhn, I _love_ the way you smell.”

He won’t touch his own cock, can’t risk it, so he grabs for Harry’s instead. The softness of the skin makes it seem delicate, despite the unyielding hardness of it. Draco murmurs a lube spell of his own — wandless but not wordless, _damn it_ — and slides his fingers along the whole wide length of him, all while grinding himself through the rise and fall of Harry’s indulgent breach and retreat. Draco swallows against the way his mouth waters, the way his breath trembles, the way his heart aches.

“I can’t decide if I want to ride you or let you fuck my throat,” Draco says, hoarse.

“ _Ride me_ ,” Harry says like it’s the only option, and that settles that.

Draco rises up, legs trembling, as Harry’s withdrawal leaves an ache, an emptiness — beneath his ribs, around his lungs. Harry’s sitting, but it’s an echo of their position against the wall: Draco’s knees pressed into the cushions by Harry’s hips, his groin high enough for Harry to bury his nose in deep amongst the hairs, his body bent forward over the curve of Harry’s head. They stay there a moment, catching their breath, and Draco prays to Salazar that it goes no further because there is so very little more that he can take.Draco blinks away the brightness, the ringing in his ears. He’s not done with this fight yet.

He eases away from Harry’s face and fumbles his fingers behind him. Draco takes a deep breath, two, then presses the peak of Harry into the crux of himself, and lets everything within him go for the long sink down.

They both groan through it, loud, the only noise in the entire house, both shocked and speechless at the way they feel together. Harry’s raw, tender eyes stare into Draco’s, and Draco is both terrified and overwhelmingly euphoric at once. He lifts himself up, savouring the slow drag against his quick-fire nerves, pauses when just the head of Harry’s cock is tugging at the very edges of him, and slams himself down. He allows himself a smug smile at the way Harry howls, then he does the whole thing again.

And again. And again.

Soon, Harry starts to snap his hips to meet Draco bearing down, and it’s _beautiful_. Just rough enough to keep the fight going between them. But it’s almost a revelation — a shocking peek at how meteoric they may become at the tandem sprint to a common goal. Harry knows his shit: still managing to graze Draco’s prostate despite the tumult, and now they’re both moaning at how good it all feels.

Harry’s fumbling with the button’s of Draco’s shirt, the idiot, and Draco doesn’t plan on slowing down to help him. He apparently gets the first few, enough to pull the opening of the shirt to the side so that Harry can nose into Draco’s armpit like an animal. Draco knows Harry can feel how his muscles shiver at the sensation. Then Harry’s back to the rest of the buttons, and Draco focuses on getting fucked in a way that will change how he fucks for the rest of his life.

And then, suddenly, Harry stops.

“What the _fuck_ —” Draco snaps at the jarring loss of momentum, ready to tear Harry’s throat out with his teeth if he has to. Then, he sees the way Harry’s face is stunned and slack and staring at the exposed span of Draco’s chest.

At his scars.

“Ah, shit,” Draco says softly. He pulls off and sits back a respectable distance on Harry’s lap—as respectable as he can manage while they’re both naked and mostly hard.

“I hurt you,” Harry murmurs, fingers hovering an inch over Draco’s chest. Afraid to touch.

“I like to think I’m not defined by my scars,” Draco says. “None of them.” He pulls up a sagging sleeve over his left wrist to flash a black glimpse of the worst decision of his life. “Not the ones you gave me or the ones I gave myself. I’m defined by my choices, _now_ , despite my scars.”

Harry swallows. “Can you choose to forgive me?”

He shakes his head. “I never even held it against you.”

“Why?”

Draco sighs. He wants to give a cutting answer, a hostile answer. But the kind of answer Harry needs, Harry deserves, is the kind of answer Draco has buried deep beneath the attitude of warfare. “Because you wouldn’t have held it against me if I did this to you.”

Harry’s fingers do touch his scars, then: gossamer, reverent. 

“I want…” Harry shakes his head, helpless. “I don’t want us to stop, but I don’t know if that’d be okay.”

“Listen to me,” Draco says, pressing his nose against Harry’s so that there’s nowhere for those green eyes to look except at his. “You and me, _we_ choose what happens here. Not our reputations, not the Ministry, not our complexes from the war. I don’t want to stop either, and so I’m going to fight for it.” He bares his teeth. “If you want to fight for it, too, then fuck me the way you want me to be fucked.”

Harry kisses him, a closing of the space between them that Draco is somehow surprised by. The kiss is deep, quiet. No nipping, no moaning. An apology, maybe. A baring of souls.

Harry pulls back. “Can we… on hands and knees?”

Draco swallows, nods. They pull apart and rearrange themselves in a way that isn’t hesitant, but still careful.

From behind him, Draco watches Harry reach down to where his palms are braced on the sofa, and fold their hands together.

Draco looks at the fingers threading through his, then turns to look over his shoulder.

“You’re going to knot me,” he says.

Harry stills, swallows. “If that’s what you want.”

Draco smiles. “It is.”

Harry presses his forehead into the spot between Draco’s shoulder blades. “Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” he says, and slides in.

Having sex this way is somehow even more excruciating, in a way that has nothing to do with the physical pain of being breached. Draco has his back to Harry, is on his hands and knees for Harry, is bent over and submitting to Harry in a way that runs a shock of terror down his every nerve ending. But overwriting that is the hysteria of Draco’s _willingness_ to let Harry have this, to be so naked and exposed in a way that leaves him shivery. The cracks that came with being honest to Harry are turning into a fracture, giving way to a more fragile, more brutal honesty. The trembling starts in the core of his heart and radiates outwards.

“It’s okay,” Harry croaks, his thrusts all-consuming but somehow tender, shy. “I promise it’s okay. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.”

Draco hiccups into something that is too close to a sob, pinches his eyes shut against what threatens to burst out. “I’m so hard to _hold_.”

“It’s okay,” Harry repeats. He squeezes Draco’s hand. “I’ll be strong enough for it. I’ll fight for it.”

Draco’s head bows from the weight of it. The glow of it. The shocking explosion of it. Harry will fight for it. They both will.

He doesn’t have the breath for it, but he has to say it, _needs_ to say it. “Harr — Harry,” he gasps. “Oh, Merlin, _Harry_!”

“Draco,” Harry whispers back against the shell of his ear. “Draco Dracodraco _draco_.”

It’s then that Draco feels it. Inside of him, everything swells tighter, pushing him wider and grinding up against the dazzling spot, a _perfect_ spot, deep within.

He can feel himself convulsing around it, moaning through the tears that prick at his eyes. He bears down against the burn, until suddenly through it lances the bright sparks of agonizing pleasure at being knotted. His body is overwhelmed, and tired, and barely able to hold himself up, but Draco is so, _so_ close.

“Come, Draco,” Harry groans into his hair. “Come with me. I — unh — _please_.”

Harry’s hips give a sharp, aborted buck, and he _roars_ , the sound vibrating straight through Draco’s bones. Draco feels the warmth that spills in him, the press of skin against his back, the fingers tightening between his, and he’s lost. The only anchor he has is the fire that burns through him — a purge, a cleanse, a purification — and the way Harry holds him as he bucks and comes and comes and comes.

Draco’s breaths after feel like the first full ones he’s taken since Harry lunged at him across the room, and he gulps them in as the two of them carefully arrange shaking limbs together on the sofa. Harry curls around him in the quiet, and Draco presses himself into those strong arms while he marvels at the knot holding them together.

“How long does this last?” Draco asks.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I haven’t knotted — there hasn’t been any … I don’t know.”

Draco allows himself a smug smile. “ _Good_.”

Harry snorts, then things settle into the quiet once more. Tomorrow, Draco will poke at this, clinically examine how his entire existence is now fundamentally changed. Tomorrow.

“The full moon is tomorrow,” Harry says, softly.

Draco takes a breath, turns his head to look at him. “Want me to stay? So you’re not alone when you wake up?”

When Harry smiles at him, it’s a grin full of teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title and song lyrics from [ Teeth by 5 Seconds of Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWeJHN5P-E8), a very sexy, very fighty song that I listened to on repeat while writing this fic


End file.
